


In Death's Way

by Marrilyn



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, Gore, Hurt, Injury, Magic, POV Rowena MacLeod, Protective Rowena MacLeod, Witchcraft, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23451355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marrilyn/pseuds/Marrilyn
Summary: After you sacrifice yourself to save her, Rowena goes down a downward spiral while waiting for you to come back to life.
Relationships: Rowena MacLeod/You
Comments: 8
Kudos: 39





	In Death's Way

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [ EmeraldFlames](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldFlames/pseuds/EmeraldFlames) for giving me the idea to write this!

It happened so fast.

One moment you were screaming Rowena's name and pushing her away from a razor-sharp blade — pure iron, the perfect witch killing weapon — as it swung at her.

The next that very same blade was buried into your stomach and you were gasping, and then you were on the floor screaming your lungs out.

For a few seconds it was as if time had frozen. Sam flinched, eyes wide in surprise. Dean stared, taken aback. Rowena stood still as a statue. Frozen in place. Unmoving, even as her heart raced a thousand beats a minute and her throat was so tight, so dry that it made it hard to breathe. Her eyes were on you; on your writhing form; on the blood that seeped from your wound, drenching your shirt, forming a crimson puddle around you; on your eyes that were terrified and lips that were trembling even as scream after scream tore free from them as pain spilled over you.

It had been Rowena's idea to take this case. When Sam had called — he was always the one who called, knowing full well she was very, very unlikely to say no to him, the softie she'd become — practically begging for assistance, she'd said yes right away.

Someone had been killing witches; young girls, more children than women. A rogue hunter, all the evidence pointed to. Rowena couldn't decline. There was that pesky friendship she'd hard with Sam that nagged at her, willed her to accept, but for the most part, she wanted to help out because those girls reminded her of her. They were young, inexperienced, just coming into their power. Vulnerable in ways they didn't even know. Buds on their way to becoming beautiful flowers. The same way she had been all those centuries ago. And, just like that, their lives were taken from them. All that potential for greatness, that long life ahead of them, that magic about to bloom and prosper gone forever.

It was wrong.

Rowena wouldn't — _couldn't —_ stand for it. You'd begged her not to go, to call and say she'd changed her mind, but her mind was made up. She was going to avenge those girls. Worried out of your mind, going on and on about the dangers — that Rowena was perfectly aware of all on her own — you decided to join her.

You didn't always accompany her, but for the most part the two of you were a package deal. The Winchesters either accepted both or neither. The brothers always appreciated the extra help, though. A second pair of lips to cast spells could never be a bother (even if said lips, for the majority of the time, ranted about the dangers of what you were doing).

That was the thing about you. You cared about Rowena. You _loved_ her. If she was in danger, you protected her. If she walked into danger, you walked in beside her with your hand in hers. Rowena returned the favour, but there were times when she wasn't sure if this kind of a relationship was a blessing or a curse. She loved being cared for, loved being pampered and showered with attention and affection. Adored it. Craved it. But it came with certain risks, like you doing stupid things to get her out of trouble her own stupidity had gotten her into.

It was true what they said — love made one a bloody idiot.

Tracking the hunter's residence was relatively easy. A simple tracking spell worked wonders with the spots of blood he'd left on his latest crime scene (the teenager he'd killed had scratched him good and drew enough blood to use to pinpoint his location). Sneaking up on him, taking him out — that was a whole different story.

The bastard had had the outside of his home secured with traps. Sam and Dean took what felt like ages disabling them. The house was quiet, all the lights shut down. Figuring he was most likely asleep, the four of you snuck in.

Only to be instantly ambushed by even more traps, and then the hunter himself. The man was old, but surprisingly fit for his age. He may have looked frail, but his skill, the finesse with which he moved pointed to a healthy, extremely skilled individual.

The traps were enough to — at least temporarily — incapacitate Sam and Dean, and the hunter used that to turn on Rowena. His house was encased in iron. The bloody metal was everywhere; in every decoration, every frame that hung on the yellowed wallpapered walls. There were bits of it in the floor, and dangling by the windows. Rowena could feel her magic, but it was faint. She couldn't reach it; it was too far away, almost at the tip of her fingers but not close enough to grab it, to unleash it. It stirred in her veins, warned her blood, but it was trapped, confined within the cage of her body.

As she threw random objects and hurled insults at the assaulting man, she called forth her magic. Almost there but not quite. Not strong enough. Not close enough. Just out of reach. _Come on!_ She spat out spells, which only elicited mockery from the hunter. She wanted to wipe the smugness off his face. If not with magic, then with her nails.

Then the knife struck and she hadn't had time to dodge and suddenly she was pushed, stumbling, almost falling, and you were in her place with the knife buried deep into your abdomen.

The hunter grinned, proud of his work, and slid the blade out in one easy, learned pull. Blood instantly started pouring, and you fell on your back like a sack of potatoes, too heavy for your trembling knees to hold you up.

"No!" Rowena screamed, throat running raw. Tears blurred her vision, a few brave ones slipping free.

_No. No. No. No. No._

Killing young witches — _children —_ was bad enough. Harming you, _killing_ you…

_No!_

She'd lost her entire family. Had lost Oskar. Gavin. Fergus. Each due to her quest for power, her own greed and thirst for greatness and revenge. You were the only one she had left. The only good thing in her life. The one who'd never judged her, never tried to change her. Who loved her just as she was, even when she didn't deserve it. Who showed her that it was okay to love again, that love was strength rather than a weakness. Who wiped her tears and soothed her nightmares and held her tight without her having to say a word. You knew what she needed, when she needed it, and you gave it, generously, selflessly, not once asking for even a kiss in return.

Rowena had done it again. She'd been careless, and, the lovesick fool you were, you got hurt trying to protect her. That had been your thing from the very beginning. Saving her. Even when she didn't want to be saved, back when she thought cruelty and selfishness were just ways of life, you were there to convince her otherwise. Her dame in shining armour, always looking after her.

 _Fool,_ she thought. _Bloody fool._ But you were _her_ bloody fool.

It wasn't that she wouldn't do the same for you. She would, in a heartbeat. But she'd lived a long, long life. Had experienced the world in so many ways. Even if she were to die for the umpteenth time (she'd stopped counting a while ago), she would have been okay.

You, on the other hand, had never died before. Even though she'd secured you with one of her resurrection sachets, Rowena had promised herself to never let you have to use it. To never let it go that far. Dying was a harrowing experience. It wore on the body, on the soul, on the heart and mind. At this point in her life, she was used to it. The last thing she wanted was for you to go through it.

Who was this hunter to think he had a right to your life? To the lives of all those witches he'd killed? What made him think he was entitled to them? Those young women had never hurt anyone in their lives. You had never hurt anyone (anyone who hadn't deserved it, that was). You'd done nothing but love Rowena, save her yet again.

It wasn't right. It wasn't fair.

He needed to pay.

Magic stirred in Rowena's veins. Roiled and coiled, twisted and whirred. A pulsating wave of power flooded her, and it was as if all dams broke at once. As if all the iron guarding the house had melted into nothingness. Magic was strong inside her. Filled her up to the brim, got her high like a drug. Her eyes glowed purple; a threat, a warning of what was to come.

The hunter gasped, frightened, terrified to the bone, and, goodness, it felt good. He backed away, tried to run off, but Sam and Dean, finally freed from the trap, perched in the doorway, blocking his path. There was no running now. No more innocent lives lost at his hands. No more cruelty and pain.

Rowena didn't have to say the words. Didn't have to point. All she did was look at him with her tear-stained eyes and think it, will it, urge it, and the man broke into screams. He clutched his head in desperation, eyes wide, body writhing and shaking. Legs wobbly.

"P-p-please!" he managed to squeeze out, as if it would do anything. As if Rowena would forget what he'd done, what he'd tried to do. Her old ways were behind her, but she was still vindictive. She still dealt justice to those who'd wronged her. He was knocking on the wrong door for mercy.

His legs gave way, and he crumbled to his knees with a thud so loud it was as if his bones shattered on impact. A trail of blood slid from his nose, a thin, watery trickle that soon thickened into a stream. His eyes and mouth suffered the same fate, crimson leaking out of them. He was still able to scream, though his throat had run raw and the sound dialed down; not much, but enough for Rowena to notice, to take pleasure in the fact that she'd done that to him. That it was her magic, her will that, bit by bit, sent him to ruin.

It was a messy scene, even by her standards. It reminded her of her demon-killing spell; gods, it had been so long since she'd last used it. She'd almost forgotten how good it felt to destroy something, to have it fall apart before her. To watch it wither and shatter and crumble, and know it was her that did it. Her vengeance. Her justice.

People — human and supernatural alike — feared her for a reason. She hadn't built herself reputation for nothing. She'd gone soft in recent years, had changed, but that part of her was still very much alike. The only difference was, nowadays she went after the guilty. After the bad and the horrible, the ones that hurt innocents.

The ones that hurt _you._

The hunter's snow-white skin flushed the crimson of blood that slicked down his orifices. His screams quieted. Body stilled. A gurgle escaped him as he tried to release a sound — a scream, a plea, all swallowed down. His hands shot down to his stomach, and he laid down, curling up like a child. His breathing was hitched, labored. Moans managed to break through the blood pouring out of his mouth.

His skin got redder, darker, and with it he quieted down. His eyes, filled with cruel smugness a mere moment ago, started spilling out of their sockets. A liquid white resembling pus from a popped pimple. His cheeks puffed up, red as ripe cherries, and then they, too, liquefied. The rest of him followed; skin falling open, sliding down; insides pouring out, mixing with it.

What was once a man was now a mush of blood and flesh. The clothes he was wearing sank into it. The carpet stained with it, absorbed it, let it glue to it.

Amidst her anguish, Rowena smiled. Revenge truly was a proud, massive cunt.

"What the hell was that?" Dean asked, flabbergasted.

She paid him no mind, rushing to your side, falling to her knees beside you.

"Rowena," you said, tears sliding down your face.

"I'm here." She reached for your hands, which rested on your stomach, over the wound, and grabbed hold of one of them. Your fingers were warm, sticky, slick with blood. She gripped them tight. "I'm here, love."

"It hurts." Your voice was so weak. So faint.

Rowena's heart shattered. "I know." She offered a smile, a forced one she hoped passed for real. You could always tell the difference. "It's going to be okay."

"I-I-I'm dying," you whimpered.

"Only for a short while," she assured you. "A few minutes, and you will be as good as new!"

Dying and coming back — it was easy. Stressful, but easy. You were going to be okay. Rowena would make sure of it.

"I'm scared," you said.

Rowena tightened her hold on your hand. "You've nothing to be scared for. I'm here now, and I will be there when you wake up. I'm not going to leave you."

You nodded. Released a hurt, terrified whine. "What if I don't come back? What if—"

"You _will_ come back," she told you. Her sachets were foolproof. She knew the spell by heart. She wouldn't make a mistake, not at the cost of your life. "I promise you, Y/N. This is only temporary."

"Okay." Your other hand slithered over your joint hands. Fingers curled around them. "Okay."

"Okay," Rowena repeated.

It wasn't okay. Far from it. But it would be. Once you came back, everything would be okay again.

A small smile crept on your mouth before life faded from you. A breath, a whimper, and you were dead. You looked almost happy. At peace. As if you'd lived a long and fulfilled life, and were ready to greet death with open arms.

"Rowena," Sam said, careful, tentative as always, breaking the silence that settled over the foreign house, "I'm—"

"She will be back," Rowena said before he could say the word. _Sorry._ He had nothing to be sorry for. You weren't gone. Not for long. "She has one of my sachets." As if to make sure, her hand slid down to your thigh. She caressed the place where she'd sewn in the sachet; it had been messy work, bloody, exhausting, but it was worth it.

Sam let out a sigh of relief. "That's good."

"Do we just… wait?" asked Dean.

"Aye. But it might take a while."

It could be minutes, or hours. Depending on the severity of the death. Considering you'd died by an iron blade, there was no telling how long it would take for magic to put you back together.

"Let's go home, then," Sam said. "We can move her, right?"

"Of course," Rowena said. Better to take you somewhere comfortable than leave you on the cold, dirty ground.

She shuddered as the memory of her last death hit. Lucifer's hard-soled boot slamming into her skull. Flames eating up her skin, devouring it like acid. The fear. The loneliness. You'd only found her after it was over, after she was nothing but a pile of bones, charred beyond recognition.

As much as she hated being there all alone, she was grateful you were out when the Devil had struck. There was no telling what he would have done to you if he'd found you there. Rowena wouldn't have been the only one with trauma. PTSD, you'd called it. She'd never gotten an official diagnosis, but the symptoms fit.

It took a long while for her sachet to heal the damage inflicted on her. It took even longer for the nightmares to subside, for the fear to fade. There were still times she was afraid, and nights she'd dream of it and wake up drenched in sweat. You were there through it all. Had promised to be there no matter what, and fully intended on making good on it.

And, she promised to herself, she would be there for you as well.

Sam took you into his arms. Rowena watched, hating that she had to let go of your hand, that she had to step away. Sam was gentle. He carried you to the car with utmost care, and slowly laid you on the backseat, your head nestled in Rowena's lap.

She caressed your forehead the entire way to the Bunker. Counted the minutes when you would return and look up at her with those warm eyes and make this horrible day into nothing but a memory, a bad one to be discarded and rarely thought of. _My sweet girl,_ she thought to herself. The only good thing she had left. The light of her life. _I love you._

Sam and Dean got you settled into one of the spare bedrooms. It wasn't much, but it was clean, and the bed was comfortable enough for you to feel safe waking up. Rowena was immensely grateful. They offered to find her some clean clothes, but she declined. Her blouse and dress pants were good, even if they were stained with blood. _Your_ blood, which, for reasons she couldn't quite comprehend, made it less bad. It would have been one thing if it were a stranger's. Yours was familiar. A part of you.

Rowena, as politely as she could, asked to be alone, and the brothers respected the wish. She sat down beside you and reclaimed her hold **on/of** your hand. Your skin was cold as ice, freezing, but the touch still made her feel safe. At home. Her fingers wrapped around yours. Squeezed as hard as they could, as if the pressure would make you come back faster.

"Foolish girl," she chastised half-heartedly.

She'd told you countless times your devotion to her would be your undoing. You'd always chuckled and replied with something like, "So be it."

And so it was.

So foolish. Even now, years into your relationship, Rowena couldn't tell what it was about her that made you love her so much. She was sure of one thing — she didn't deserve it. She didn't deserve half the affection you'd given her.

_Foolish girl._

"I love you so much."

She'd never loved anyone — not even Fergus' bastard father — the way she loved you. There was something about you, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, that made it impossible for her not to love you. You were a peculiar girl. Strange. Different.

Hers.

The knowledge of it felt… exhilarating. _Right._ You were hers, and she was yours. Forever, if magic were to allow it. If _you_ wanted it for Rowena wanted nothing more than to spend the eternity with you.

"So much," she repeated, allowing a smile to break to the surface. "You foolish girl."

It had been less than an hour, but it felt as if Rowena were waiting for days. Her hand remained on yours, eyes darting between your face — your calm, impossibly peaceful face — and your wound. _Come on,_ she urged. Hoped. Begged. _Wake up._

And, eventually, you did.

It started with a spark. Rowena flinched, startled, as a spark lit up on your thigh. Even through your pants, the light — a beautiful, mesmerizing purple — was bright and clear. It traveled up your body in a steady trail, like neon paint slithering over your skin. The light settled in your chest in a wild burst of color, the magic of life spilling over you, filling you up. Giving back what was lost.

Your eyes snapped open. Mouth fell wide as your lungs craved air. You were panting, heaving, sucking in the oxygen as if you were about to drown.

The light framed your stomach, formed a perfect circle around your gaping wound. As it closed in on it, the flesh knit itself together until your stomach was whole again. No scars. Not a blemish in sight. The only reminder of the injury the dry blood drenching your clothes.

"What—" your voice was coarse, scratchy, like sand brushing against skin, "—the—" a breath, deep, almost painful, "—fuck?!"

Rowena breathed out in relief. Yes. You were back. Good as new, just as she'd predicted. Still, doubts, however small they were, had nibbled at her, sneered from the back of her mind, and she was glad to have proven them wrong. You were back. You were _you._ That was all that mattered.

"Welcome back, Y/N," she said, as if greeting you upon your return from a shopping trip. As if the predicament you'd found yourself in was an everyday occurrence.

"I-I died." The realization settled like a punch to the face, and your features hardened. "Oh, my god, I died! I was dead!"

"Yes," Rowena confirmed because what else was she supposed to do? You died and came back. There was no sugar-coating it.

"The bastard _stabbed_ me!" There was so much rage in your voice that it made a tinge of pride light up inside of Rowena. You looked to your stomach, ran your hands over it, then breathed out, relieved to find no marks.

"You'll be happy to know he's dead," Rowena said. You tilted your head up like a puppy. "I took care of him myself." Her hand reclaimed the hold of yours. "Nobody kills my girl and gets away with it."

You smiled. "My hero."

She wouldn't go _that_ far, but she supposed it was an accurate description. She'd saved you. Avenged you. And she would do it again in a heartbeat.

She would do anything — _anything —_ for you.

"How long was I out?" you asked.

"Almost an hour." You would've come back sooner had you not died by iron. The bloody metal was tricky. It destroyed magic, nullified it; the sachet's magic needed time to fight it off.

"Damn."

You brought your hands to your face. Slid them down to your neck, chest, legs. Wrapped your arms around yourself, around your knees. Felt up your hair, your breasts, your stomach; your healed stomach coated with the same dried blood that clung to your hands.

"I was dead." It was as if the reality of it only now sank in. Your eyes puffed up. Redness filled them, and tears spilled down your face. A bitter, unstoppable downpour. "Oh, god! Oh, god! Oh, god!"

Rowena was quickly at your side, arms flying around you. You pressed your head to her chest, buried your face in her blouse, and started sobbing. It was a heartbreaking sound. Desperate. Wounded and vulnerable, like the wail of a child seeking comfort.

"It's okay," she said. "The first time is always overwhelming." Hers had been, as well, many centuries ago. She hadn't sobbed, but there were tears and discomfort and the feeling of wanting to escape her own — dead, about to rot, newly resurrected — skin. "Let it out."

"Am-am I gonna be okay?" you whimpered.

"Yes," Rowena said firmly, truth radiating off her words. She hadn't sugarcoated the bad, and she wouldn't the good, either. "This is just shock. Give it a day, and you will be fine."

You nodded. Sniffled. Whined into her blouse like a puppy.

Gods. If she wasn't putting on a strong front for you, she would have broken down as well. She willed her emotions to stay hidden, buried. She could cry later. Right now, what mattered the most was you.

It took a few minutes for you to calm down. Rowena held you, cooed at you, comforted you until you raised your head, wiped your face with your sleeve, and muttered that you were fine.

"Sorry," you said. "I don't know what came over me."

"Like I said, it was shock," Rowena told you. "It's natural. Dying is a stressful process, and so is resurrection."

"Was it like that for you, the first time?"

"Aye. You get used to it after a while." There was a touch of bitterness in her tone. She cleared her throat. "That said, I hope _you_ never get used to it." You looked up at her. She raised a forefinger in what was supposed to be a threat, but she knew you were way past being intimidated by her. She doubted you ever truly were. "Don't you dare do this ever again!"

"It's not like I wanted to die," you defended.

"You put yourself in a bad situation—"

"To save you!"

"I'm not worth it!" she snapped. Why couldn't you understand that?

"You are to me!" you retorted.

 _You stupid, stubborn girl!_ "I—"

"You're worth it," you repeated, a tad softer. "You fucking are! I'd do anything for you."

 _Gods!_ "And I would for you, but—"

But she'd lived a long and fulfilled life. She'd died dozens of times. She could handle it.

You cut her off yet again. "No buts! I'm not sorry I did it. I'd do it again if I had to." You grabbed your hands, brought them to your lap. Twined your fingers with hers in gentle knots. "I love you, Rowena."

Shatter her heart, why didn't you? She sighed. "And I love you, dearest." You had no idea how much. "I just… I don't want you to end up like me."

"You're awesome! Who wouldn't wanna be like you?" you said light-heartedly.

Rowena gave a small laugh. "You know what I meant."

"I know." You squeezed her hands. "I'm gonna be okay. I promise. You don't have to worry about me."

"That's easier said than done."

"I guess." You smiled. "Now you know what it's like for me when you tell me not to worry. And don't tell me it's different!"

It was. Because she was an almost-four-hundred-year-old formerly evil witch. And you were… _you._ The love of her life. The only family she had left.

"You're my girl," you added.

"Bloody sap," Rowena accused playfully.

"You know it," you said with a chuckle.

Your arms fell around her, and she found herself enveloped in a hug so tight it was squeezing the life out of her. She didn't mind, opting to return it with just as much ferocity. Gods, she loved you. Her heart ached with it, throbbed with it like a hammer in her chest. She never wanted to let you go. Never wanted to be away from you again. Never wanted to lose you, even if it was temporary.

"I'll try not to die again, though," you said after a moment of silent cuddling. "It sucked."

Rowena could only laugh. "Death is a cruel mistress."

The cruelest of them all.

But the two of you could beat her. Together.

**Author's Note:**

> Edited by miss-moon-guardian.


End file.
